


Season of the Witch

by DayDreamingAni



Category: Southern Vampire Mysteries - Charlaine Harris, True Blood
Genre: Bill is a Turd, Eric Northman the Stud, Ex's and their drama, F/M, Heavy in the Witch plot., I know not of Timelines, Liberal Usage of SVM/True Blood characters, Nor of their uses, Not the witches from True Blood., OFC-centric, Pam is a Gem, Pam the Bro, Romance, Some references to the Show but not many, Sookie is clueless, Timeline?, Witchcraft, Witches, bit of angst, even the Undead aren't immune to it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayDreamingAni/pseuds/DayDreamingAni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The destruction of Willow's coven has ruffled the feathers of a few people and Revenge hangs heavy in the air.<br/>She's just trying to help. Just trying to stop it before it boils over. She didn't mean to pledge her loyalty and gifts to a vampire. She didn't mean to fall deep into the vampire underworld. She didn't mean to make friends along the way. She didn't mean to fall in love with possibly the most dangerous one of them all.<br/>But life is funny that way, unpredictable, especially when one mixed Witches and Vampires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Face of a Dead Man

 

* * *

 

It smells of death, of cheap perfume, of latex, sweat and sex. It smells like trouble, like danger and of the magic of a time long since gone. It smells, well, it smells like she thought a vamp bar might.

She doesn't want to be here, not really. She doesn't want to tangle in the affairs of the dead-o's. But, her conscious won't let it go. It's murder, plain and dry. Coming in the cover of dark, hiding behind darker powers that they yet to understand. It's murder, even if it is the undead their about to waste. But tensions are high these days. Ever since the whole 'Execution of a whole Coven' thing.

Some people, their out for blood—vampy blood. And if they go through with this, it'll be war. They'll be plunged back into the dark ages where they were hunted and burned alive. She has to do _something_.

So here she is, whether she likes it or not. In a bar painted heavily in black and red. In a bar full of dead-o's and deady lovers. In a bar that half the world is coveting for their out of the box—or _coffin_ —ideas. A bar owned and operated by the one and only Northern Viking. She definitely doesn't want to be here.

And they don't want her here. She can tell by the looks the undead are giving her. They know exactly what she is. They can smell the magick off of her as clear as she she can feel it off of them. To be honest she's a little surprised none of them have come at her. But then, there's quite a full house, the mortals, fickle little creatures—they're packed like sardines.

“Either you're incredibly stupid or utterly crazy to come here, especially on your own,” a dry, humorless voice drawls from behind her somewhere. Turning sharply on her heel she finds a—relatively short—platinum blonde pinning her with the most unamused look she's ever seen on a face. Her ruby red lips so vivid in comparison to her pale face are curved in a cross between a frown and a pout.

A dead-o. And an older one to boot. She can feel it, deep in her bones, this pretty little face has more power than her small frame belies. She can see the multitude of years reflected in those pale emerald eyes. She can almost see the lives extinguished by her hands alone. This dead-o was a force to be reckoned with, no matter what her rose colored latex dominatrix suit said.

“I'd say it'd be a bit of both,” she admits, her accent—a strange combination of southern Texas and Mexican slang curling her words. A small token of her homeland.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't afraid. Because she is, deathly afraid, that is. They can probably smell it off her, underneath the wild charge of what she is, fear is clearly in her scent. But she locks her shoulders, keeps them tight and raises her chin in defiance. She's come this far and she will not falter. Not until she's done what she's come here to do.

“I'm here to speak to the vampire Sheriff of area three,” she tells the blonde, somehow managing to keep her words from shaking—too much.

“Oh?” the blonde drawls out, long and thick in heavy sarcasm. A pale blonde brow rising up in question, “And why would a _**witch**_ ,” the word is flung at her like the worst of slurs, “want with him?”

Wearily she takes a chance to remove her eyes from the vampire before her to take a look around. Her eyes flashing over the dead faces and those covered in white paste. She eyes them all as she digs the flesh of her back into the counter the— _absurdly_ high placed—bar. She doesn't want to do this out here. She had assumed, being what she was, they would have taken her to some back room or dungeon the moment she walked in. She had counted on their ingrained distrust for her kind. She hadn't thought them to leave her alone at the bar for as long as they had.

Hadn't counted on rational dead-o's wanting to hash it out before it came to blows.

“Is there a place we can go discuss this in a more...” she flounders in the face of utter deadly perfection, “private?”

“Oh, is that what this is?” the leer that splits across that pale face is both seductive and utterly unsettling, “A little witch wishing to walk on the undead's side? Hoping for, as the blood bags say, 'a little strange'?”

“Uh...no?” she lulls out. Her eyes blown wide at the strange implication and choosing of words. She shakes her head quickly and tells the vampire as firmly as she can manage, “It's kind of important that I speak to your sheriff. **Tonight**.”

“Well, I'm sorry to say little witch, he's busy tonight. So you best hop on that broomstick and go on home,” the green eyed demon tells her, a low purr under her empty tone. There's a dark glow in her eyes that spells of nothing but bloodshed. A threat hanging clear in her face as if it were a knife.

Frustration is the first to bloom in her chest. Quick on it's heels is anger. She's running on two hours of sleep, maybe, an empty stomach and a shit load of paranoia. She doesn't need a snarky, bored, and mean vampire shouting prejudices at her.

“Look,” she all but hisses through tight lips, “I know your an old Vampire, probably old enough to kill without even dirtying your finger nails, so I'm pretty sure you have some easy won hate against my kind. But, I'm trying to do your sheriff a favor here...”

Her words are cut off by a bored tone and a scathing look, “By offering yourself to him? I'm pretty sure I can speak for him on this matter, sweetie, but you aren't his type. He likes them Blonde, blue eyed, big breasted and heavy in the southern belle spiel. And you, you're nowhere near anything like that.”

“Offering myself to—” she half screeches before her catches herself. She doesn't want to get in a fight with a vampire; doesn't want to accidentally kill the she beast before she's had time to talk to the head hancho. She needs someone to listen to her, to see reason, to see this for the trouble it could very well become. So she bites down on her words and puts a heavy clamp on the magic quickly surging within herself. Taking a deep breath in she glares at the pink stiletto wearing vamp and tells her plainly, “It's kind of life or death situation here, his life and death, your life and death. But if you want to—”

Her words are lost to her when a hand clamps down tightly on her mouth and seals her lips shut. Before she can make sense of what's happened she's moving. Moving so fast she feels her stomach lurch—she's always been prone to motion sickness. Before she knows it her back has been slammed into a wall. The hand that had been slapped over her lips is now wrapped around her neck. The hand a giant of a thing surrounding the fragile thing that ensures her life.

With a hard slam the breath that was clamped behind a hand leaves her in a heavy _whoosh_.

She's properly choking now.

Standing before her now is no longer that green eyed platinum blonde. Now who stands before her is a beauty unlike anything she's ever seen. Hair the color of spun gold falls in waves down thick broad shoulders. Eyes the shade of a storming sky are bearing down on her with all the welcome of a raging dark sea. His face is made of broad features, a stern jaw and prominent nose and cheek bones you could slice a finger off of. He is gorgeous, beautiful, sinful and utterly...undead. Michelangelo would weep at the sight of this gorgeous beauty.

“You dare walk into my bar, in front of my subjects, and threaten my life?! Tell me why I should not bleed you dry, witch?!” the marble statue of beauty come to life growls at her. His glistening white fangs bared at her. The threat of her life hanging before her on a flimsy sewing thread, the edges frayed already.

Logically, she knows, she shouldn't feel wonder and amazement at the sight of him. Logically, she knows, she should be afraid. Logically, she knows, she should feel nothing but fear.

Because this here is the Vampire sheriff of area Five. Because this here is the Vampire that led the assault on the fourth strongest coven in this area. Because this here was a vampire a millennium old—probably older. Because this here was the great and feared Eric Northman and he had her by the throat with the very clear intent of killing her.

She should be scared. She should be wetting her pants in her fear. She should be sobbing and begging for her life. She should because she has no doubt he's one of the sole beings responsible for the dwindling of her kind. She should because she has no doubt he'd kill her here and now and get away with it as easily as if he ran over a wild rabbit and kept going.

Instead, what she feels is utter astonishment. Astonishment that she has lived as long as she has and never been confronted by such beauty until now. But of course, her mind snorts dismissively, it has to belong to a dead man.

Oh, but what a dead man he was.

 

* * *

 


	2. Shock and Awe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of the situation is revealed. But, not much.

 

 

* * *

 

Somewhere down the long winding road of history, her kind has been pushed down to the footnotes of footnotes. A small chapter that spelled of a darker time. A time overrun with illiteracy, superstition and corrupt Religious heads. People that are nothing more than a title to accuse one another to suffer the fire and brimstone, the pyre and spike, the drowings and the mutilation.

People chalked up to myth and legend. People who are now represented as children with wands. Plucky teenagers fighting to save the world on flying broomsticks. People who ate children and stole youth. People who lived in cookie homes, had hunched backs, and warts on their overgrown noses. People who were evil and soulless. People who were not people at all, not really. People who are little tales for Hollywood to make a quick buck off of.

Her people and their ways have faded just as sure as the Were's had, as the Dead-o's had, as the Fae had and everything in between. No one really remembered. Even the Deady's and all their ability to live through worlds deaths and rebirths, have begun to forget.

They forget that they are not simply mortals with a strong kick to them. They are a race all their own. They may be born of flesh and blood along side Man but they were not _mortal_. As sure as Dark Fae and Light Fae were never mistakenly called the same, a witch and a mortal were not the same. Witches, true witches, came from a line all their own.

She figured, maybe, _he_ would remember that. That maybe _he_ knew better. After all, he was about the oldest undead in these parts—if rumor was to be believed.

As it were, with a large calloused hand wrapped around her throat, he did not. The rage in his swirling azure eyes gave way to confidence. The kind that came from ages of never losing and always turning to be the only victorious. She has to say, she's a little disappointed.

“Speak, witch!” he growls at her, his voice deep like rolling thunder, never slurred or disturbed by the white fangs bared.

Those thick fingers tighten ever further around her neck and the pressure in her throat intensifies. Instinctively, her hands snap up to grip the hand that threatens her life. Her black chipped nails dig viciously into pale cold flesh yet yield nothing.

“I said,” the pale blonde god hisses at her, inching his face close to hers until their noses are but centimeters away, “ **Speak**.”

Even if her life weren't on the line, the hand not on her throat and effectively choking her, she would have listened. She would have spilled out all she had come here to say. Hard to deny those blue eyes a thing, cursed magical things that they are. As it were, she **was** being choked and her life **was** being threatened. Black spots in her vision and the threat of unconsciousness clearly looming in on her, kind of makes the decision for her.

Instinct, she blames it on instinct.

It's an old spell that first comes to mind. The runes and etchings crackling at the forefront of her minds eye. It's not meant to kill, not really, just stun. Like an electrical shock, only with a lightnings lick, just to stun long enough to get away or form a better offensive plan. It's not meant to kill, this spell, not unless you're really aiming for it. And she's not.

Electricity surges from the core essence of what she is and spills out like a socket with faulty wiring. She can feel it lifting the ends of her hair up, can feel it charging the air around them, can feel it licking its way down the length of her body and over to the dead hand that grips her. It's a spell to shock, a lightening spell, as mild as they come—mild by her standards anyway. It should do nothing more than make his muscles spasm in a clear warning to keep his gorgeous limbs to his damn self. She expects maybe for him to pull away as if burned because that's sometimes the sensation a person can feel when the energy is stinging at them.

She doesn't expect it to send him flying across the room. His eyes a murderous blue flame glaring out at her as he all but brandished his suddenly long nails. Golden frizzy hair, the kind that'll make Rapunzel green with envy, frame his beautiful rage twisted face. His black muscle shirt and tight dark washed jeans do little to hide the mountain of muscle he is made of. Muscle not meant for these times, muscle born of battle, muscle bunched up and ready—like deadly, deadly coils—to strike at her and kill her.

Coughing she clears her throat and attempts to drag in a breath for her aching lungs. When she's gotten herself under some semblance of control she eyes him carefully and demands of him, “How the fuck did you expect me to answer you when you were choking me?”

He says nothing but she doesn't expect him to. She's just essentially tasered him, at least, the magical way. His lips pulled back in a snarl and his eyes boring holes through her and boy, if looks could kill. She'd be four decades into her third life right about now. But she soldiers on, kind of has to now, she's come this far and all. She doubts if she doesn't explain to him now—and quickly—that she'll be able to leave in one piece. She's in tits deep on this one here.

“Look, I know my coming here isn't a good idea, not by a long shot. But, I just came to warn you. I didn't have to you know, come and warn you guys. Bag of dicks that you guys are, shouldn't have in all honesty,” she tells him, running a hand through her hair in a show of her nervousness and feeling the lingering energy crackle and fizzle at the action, “It's kind of your fault all of this is happening. Couldn't just leave witch business to Witches. Had to go in there and kill'em. Leave it so that people feel angry and vengeful. Shouldn't even give you guys the courtesy of a heads up. But what if I didn't and all of y'all died? It'd be on me cause I knew it would happen. What if some stupid ass Necro got caught up and they got wasted too? Fuck who knows, maybe they pull it off and they blow up the entire fucking country.

You know how many elementary schools and babies there are in this city alone? A fuck ton, that's how many. And I just can't have that on my head man. Nope, no way. I've lived through a lot, done a lot of shit I'm not proud of but I 'aint about murdering people, kids or babies. It's not in me. I didn't grow up like they did. Some of us still practice the old ways and honor the old pacts. Some of us are still true to what we are, what we were, and I like to think I'm one of them. Not like you care though, witches, right?”

She's rambling. By the fucking goddess below and above. She's caught diarrhea of the mouth. Fucking shit dude. How utterly embarrassing, she's acting like she's never been confronted by a Vamp before. Those blue eyes on her make her feel like she's some knobby kneed kid getting her first lesson on levitation. Fuck it all to hell and back.

Heaving a heavy sigh she spots the black leather couch on the far right wall of the room. It tempts her with the offering of comfort. Tempts her with the possible reprieve of her aching legs and feet. She's never been one to exercise restraint nor is she one to really think her actions through. Hence, being in a vampire bar shocking the main man in charge. In a graceless flop, she drops down heavily on the black love seat.

This year, of all her years, has been a long one. Drug out, beaten and stretched over. The stress of trying to keep the peace between four covens eats at her. This isn't even her problem, aint even her home really, not truly. But she's got people of interest involved. People she'll sell her left tit for. People she needs to get out of here should things start to go by the wayside. This is why she's here, not for the innocent lives involved—not really—it's for selfish reasons, selfish love.

But they don't need to know any of that.

Tired hands rummage through the pockets f her worn down leather jacket. It isn't very long before a white stick dangles from between her lips. Running a tired hand through her hair, again, she lets her eyes flicker over the room. The great Northman is still in the far corner, his fangs bared but is no longer hunched over like a wild cat in an alley fight. He looks more composed now. Less likely to catch her by the throat but still weary of her being in his domain. To her left stands the green eyed beauty from before. She stands guard over the only entrance and exit.

Suddenly, she feels like a rabbit cornered by two very hungry and angry wolves.

“Do you mind?” she asks the room, eyes on neither of them as she motions to her unlit cigarette. She doesn't really expect an answer. Tense as the air is now, she doubts they'll deign it fit to answer her.

Surprisingly, its the green eyed blonde who answers, her tone sarcastic and dry, “By all means, go ahead, never know when it might be your last.”

“Thanks?” she mumbles around the white stick, her eyes rolling at the clear threat. The female vamp is an utter bitch and she might like it had she not been so tired. So channeling her inner pettiness, she snaps her finger and conjures up a bright roaring flame at the tip of her finger. The fire intense enough to cast shadows.

It's a bit over kill, the flame should be no bigger than the head of a candle when done properly, but she feels like pushing the weight of her power too. She doesn't want these big bad bag of dead dicks thinking she's small fries—like Willows coven. She's nothing like them. She's stronger and deadlier. She wants them two to know that she won't go down without a fight.

With practiced ease, she lights her cigarette with the flame. Ever careful to not singe her hair in the process and slowly fans her right hand. The action is akin to blowing out a match and her finger even issues a small amount of smoke when the flame goes out.

“Why have you come, Witch?” the Vampire Sheriff demands of her. His tone hard as hard as iron and as warm as glaciers. If he is, in any way, affected by her display of power he doesn't show it. His mask is made of hardened marble.

Taking a deep hard drag of smoke she lets her head come to rest on her right hand, her elbow firmly on her knee. She's not entirely sure what to say now, after her mini breakdown earlier. Where to start that would make some sense.

She settles for a weary sigh and tells him, “Willow. You all killed her and her entire coven.”

“We did,” the mountain of muscled perfection states easily enough. No dip or curve to his words that would belie feeling any kind of remorse or satisfaction. A clear statement of what was done and is now.

“I know you did, half the world knows you did. Everyone is call it a 'Battle', like armor, swords and bows were involved. Every shifter, were, fae and Dead-o keeps talking about the great Viking warrior of old slaying witches in rags and laying waste to blood binding demons. I _know_ you killed Willow and her coven but so do the rest of us and not everyone is all that happy to hear it. Feathers have been ruffled, _Vampire_ ,” she testily shoots out, her eyes raising to meet with dark navy blue orbs.

“Why are you here, Witch?” he growls at her yet again. The lines to his pale shoulders have gone even more rigid, practically vibrating with the power they wish to unleash on her.

Heaving another heavy sigh, she inhales the nicotine and lets the smoke tumble out with her words, "Names Lana and I'm here to help you Mr. Northman."

Flicking the ash carelessly onto the floor, she places the lit stick back to her lips and begins to tell them of how greatly her life was utterly fucking screwed. And how their lives were about to get fucked in just the same amount.

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed!


	3. Best Laid Traps and Wicked Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of the situation is explained.  
> Organizations are named and our main protagonist is outed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

“How much do you know about us, Mr. Northman?” she prompts him finally, after they've lapsed in a very long and tense silence. She's gone through four cigarettes in that silence. Her nerves a jitter mess.

“I know enough,” he states, which means to say he knows only what he wants to and tosses the rest away because he doesn't like her people.

Nodding, because she'd expected no less—though had placed her expectations quite high—she asks of him, “Do you by chance now of the Light and Shadowed Order?”

His response is silence, but she's beginning to expect as much.

“They are, essentially, the reigning government of our kind. Real witches from the oldest lines are up there. Sitting in their little seats and dishing out punishments to crimes you wouldn't even begin to understand. The Light and Shadowed Order deal with the Light witches, the healers and the small fry's while the Shadowed deal with the not so friendly types and the ones who can do more trouble than simply cast a good Hex. The Light and Shadowed Order is what keeps order among us. They keep us from stepping over the lines and keep old things in check. They—”

“What does that have to do with us and why you are here now, Sabrina?” comes the slow lazy drawl of the green eyed menace, her dainty hands placed on curvy hips. Her bright pink nails digging into pale rose latex.

“Ou, pop culture reference to a teenage witch and her talking cat! Didn't know you Dead-o's possessed a sense of humor!” she half crows at the female vampire. Her lips twisted into a wry smile, “the Light and Shadowed Order has a lot to do with why I am here.”

“This order,” Northman roughly starts, his eyes narrowed, but his posture straight and sure, as well as his fangs retreated, “they are what _police_ your kind?”

“Mm-hmm,” she nods through another hefty lungful of toxins, “Half the time it's a glorified sect of old blooded nobles with too much time on their hands. Can't be bothered to get off their high horses most of the time. Hell, they don't get involved unless blood magic is used. But, when witches—Witches like _Willow_ —get out of hand they really live up to their titles.”

“What is the point of all this? Eric, can I _please_ just kill her?” the female vampire half growls and half groans. Her face the utter picture of boredom.

“My point is, before you all got the jump on Willow and her stooges, the LSO was about to take her in. Bind her powers and banish her into—purgatory, of sorts. My point is, Witch justice was about to be handed down the likes of which we haven't seen in four ages. My point is, that, before LSO could do anything you all jumped in, with your dicks in your hands, and just murdered everyone! My point is, people are pissed all to hell and back,” she bites out, the white stick firmly clenched between her lips.

“And this...” the golden haired god begins, a slow lazy wave of his large hand issued as he searched for a proper word, “ _Order_ , wishes to exact their revenge upon those who killed Willow and her ilk?”

“What?” she barks out, her dark brows knitting in confusion. Shaking her head she tosses the dead stub to the ground—where it joins his dead brothers on the shag carpet—and snuffs out the ember with the heel of her boot, “No, the way LSO see it, what y'all did, was sort of a favor to them. Less for them to do, hands kept nice and clean and all that bullshit. So no, your beef 'aint with the LSO. It's with the covens around your area.”

“My area?” the Sheriff Northman—Eric—drawls, his left blonde brow rising in question, “Explain.”

“Willow's assembly wasn't the only in these parts. It just happened to be the one who picked a bone with you, specifically. There are Four prominent covens here, or were, now with her gone it would be Three. They're pretty high up there, in power speak. Old Mage's and shit. And at least Two of them have started to whisper about revenge plans. But there's only One you have to be seriously worried about. It's run by a total whack job, seriously unhinged individual, you ask me. He's talking about using forms of magic his small mind can't begin to understand. That alone is what worries me. And,”

Here, she takes a small pause. Her eyes swinging back and forth between the two vampires and takes a calming breath. 

“He's got your name” to this she points at the Northman, “at the top of his hit list. And believe me, he has a hit list as long as my fucking arm, a lot of those names belong to deaders.”

“I demand you name him then Witch.” Northman—Eric, hisses at her. His eyes hard as frozen waters.

“What? Dr. Psycho?” she asks with a quirk to her brow as she jostled yet another white stick from her crumbled up soft pack, “That's easy, goes by the name Thorn in his little geeky circle.” at this she snorts while she lights her cigarette, “But he was born a one: Benjamin Hodden. I'd get a jump on finding that prick. He'll be going underground pretty soon. And let me tell you, a witch or warlock who doesn't want to be found, **won't** be found.”

With a heave she pulls her body up off the couch and shakes out the stiffness of her legs, one booted foot at a time. She pays no mind to the vampires now. She's come to say what she needed to say. Came to warn, came to give them information that they would not have gotten otherwise. Her job is officially done. She can get back to her strange little life and back to securing her selfish love.

“Now, I've said my piece, so I think it's high time I made my way home,” she tells all with a crooked smile and puff of gray smoke.

“No,” is the sudden answer she receives.

Her head snaps up to eye the great blonde relic. Her brow rising in questions as she goes to ask, “No? What do you mean _no_?”

“You have trespassed here, witch, onto my lands and establishment,” the Northman tells her, a dark wicked gleam shinning in his eyes now. She can feel a sudden cold dread begin to pool in the pit of her stomach at the sight of that look.

“I haven't trespassed, I came here to warn you. To give you a heads up to the massive shit storm that's brewing,” she grits out, her brows tightly drawn as she eyes the vampire. This was not how she imagined all of this ending.

“I do believe it was you, Witch, who said she still practiced the old ways, yes?” he asks slowly, his body turning ever so lightly so that he is parallel to her and not facing her head on.

“Yeah,” the word is drawn out, that one syllable stretched all to hell, “Not many of us acknowledge the old laws let alone the old ways but I was raised to respect them. What does that have to do with me leaving?”

There is a twist to his pale firm lips. A twist of a smile that is touched by shades of viciousness. A smile that is dripping in danger and swimming in maliciousness. A smile he tips to her as he dips his head and tells her, “Well, then, you should remember the old Pact between our kind. The pact that ensures we do not kill one another and plunge us all back into the days of Burning. A pact that explicitly states we can not enter the business or lands owned, respectfully, to those of opposing races. A pact that states whomever is caught breaking such agreement is liable to punishment. A punishment dealt by whoever's land has been encroached.”

That sickly feeling of ice cold dread is swirling viciously in the pit of her belly. She feels her lips begin to tip down and her heart begin to pick up pace. That dead—gorgeous, wonderful beautiful, utterly sinful—dead prick has laid a trap and she has walked blindly and as graceful as a bull in a china shop.

That pact, the one he's referring to is an old edict. A clause struck up between the years of Christianity’s most darkest of ages. An agreement that kept each race—both Witch and Vampire—safe from one another. Because, at that time, there had been bigger problems than spell casters and blood suckers. But it is binding. Binding because she had almost explicitly told him that she had practiced these ancient ways. Binding because if she said she didn't, well, what guarantee was there for her life.

“Well, fuck, you got me there Mr. Northman,” she admits through tight lips, a hand raking its way through her messy tresses, her lungs greedily inhaling gray smoke and puffing it out like a runaway locomotive. She's been painted into a corner and she did half the painting. **Shit** , “But, you should know, I'm nothing like Willow or her compatriots. I'm a Witch of better breeding and there's very little I _**won't**_ do to harm you or anyone that comes at me. So, in the spirit of common courtesy, consider this a fair warning.”

“Duly noted, Witch,” the golden crowned dead god tells her. His fangs flashing ever so lightly when he sends her a wicked gleam of a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking, if vampires have the AVL and things like that, wouldn't Witches have something similar? I think so. Like really, after all these years, someone would have gotten together to keep the peace.  
> And so, Light and the Shadowed Order was born. The who's, what's and where's will later be explained.
> 
> But I hope, whoever is reading this, or comes across it, that you enjoyed what I wrote!!!  
> -Ani<3


	4. Late Night Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of Sookie and her drama.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did I mention no timeline? No? Well, no Timeline y'all.  
> I feel like I went by the established set of events it'd feel kind of like a poor carbon copy of other things. So I'm gunna take a lot of the events, people and places and just shake'em up and toss them about to present to you guys a story, that i hope, will be original.  
> Oh, yeah and be prepared for Sookie/Eric/Bill angst.  
> It is abundant in here.  
> Any who, please read and I hope you enjoy!  
> -Ani<3

 

* * *

 

 

It's late in the evening when she receives the call. The phone hanging on the kitchen wall blaring loud in her quiet and empty home. For a second, she had laid there in her bed and simply let it ring. Thoughts of Jason being injured, or Sam in need of help, had flashed in her head as a possible reason to such a late night call. But she knew, like always, it would be vampires who were calling her.

Slowly she had risen and made her way over to the bottom of her stairs. She was not going to rush. After everything that had happened between her and the undead she had asked—half begged and half demanded—that they stay away. After everything, witch curses and an amnesiac sheriff, she thinks she's about earned a little time away from them all.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, she unhooks the telephone and answers, “Hello.”

Already, she regrets answering.

“You have been summoned,” is what greets her. Pamela's voice is as welcoming and pleasant as the Sahara desert.

Still, she is happy to hear it. Better the child than the maker.

“What for?” she prompts with more than a smidgen of terseness. She doesn't like when they summon her. As if she is some wayward dog. As if she is some bull left out to graze only to be prompted back at the beck and call of a ringing triangle. She doesn't like it. She is a person, with a mind and a will.

“You have been summoned, plain and simple, either come of your own volition are wait to be retrieved,” Pamela tells her, a clear bite and threat to her voice.

Then the line goes dead and she's left there debating whether or not she should actually look into, maybe, selling her family home and leaving all this trouble behind her.

In the end, she grits her teeth and marches back up the stairs. She wasn't raised to tuck tail and run. She wasn't raised to back out of agreements she had made. And whether she liked to admit it or not, she had consciously made the decision to get into business with Eric. Her grandmother would have had her finish this had she still been alive.

With a squaring of her shoulders she flicked the lights on to her bedroom and begins to dress herself. Considering it's two in the morning she doesn't pull out a sunday dress or her usual pumps. She settles instead for some form fitting jeans, some flats and a simple blue top. Her hair is pulled into a high pony tail and she goes without putting any kind of makeup on her face. She's much too tired and annoyed to even try to doll herself up. Grabbing her keys and her cell off her nightstand she heads to the front door.

She's halfway between locking the backdoor of her house when a thought occurs to her. Exactly, for what reason, was she being summoned for. Pamela hadn't explained. Pamela hadn't let anything slip. In fact, the female vampire had been more than a tad bit more terse than she usually as. But, that might have to do with the recent events these past few months.

A cold tendril of fear wriggles at the back of her mind. She does not think, even for all that he is a malicious creature, Eric will attempt to connive his way back into her life. She does not think, after all that has happened, he will force her into anything. She does not think, but, she is not sure. And for the first time in almost years, she fears Eric again.

She shouldn't have answered that call.

So she roots through her purse and grabs hold of her cell. Quickly she locates the name and number and clicks call. In two and a half rings he answers.

Her name is dragged out in his heavy southern twang. A thick accent heavier than hers which is strange considering she has lived here all her life and this is where he had been born and raised.

“Hey,” she answers, suddenly self conscious over speaking with him. They hadn't spoken, not after that night. The night where she had cried over the loss of a vampire that had loved her. The night where he had offered her comfort and a shoulder to cry on. The night where things had escalated or devolved and a bed was involved. The night where she had muddied the lines between which bond belonged to what vampire.

Suddenly, she thinks this might not be a good idea.

“What can I do for you this night,” he drawls out, slow and steady, his husky voice stirring something that's both longing and dark in her.

They have history between each other. Too much so that she doubts anything will ever be closed and sealed away. First's never fade. Their memory lingers for long after everything is said and done.

“I have been summoned to Fangtasia,” she tells him, the hand that's not clutching the phone goes up to scratch the back of her neck in a subconscious move that shows her nervousness.

For a moment, he is quiet, the silence ringing in her ear as she waits, “I see,” he finally answers slowly, “And you wish to know why? I am sorry S, but Eric chooses to deal with all matters in a heavy shroud of secrecy. He does not deign it fit to inform his subjects of what business he chooses to conduct.”

“Uh, no, I wasn't calling for that,” she tells him, her voice breaking slightly as she forces it to sound pleasant and unaffected by the fact that she's speaking to him—Bill—about the other—Eric. The whole situation between the three of them has made her feel so uncomfortable, “I was kind of wondering, if you weren't busy tonight, if you could accompany to Fangtasia.”

The steps that lead up to her back door are empty as she stands there speaking. As soon as her request leaves her lips suddenly they aren't empty any more. For there he stands, dressed in his khaki slacks and a crisp white dress shirt tucked neatly in. He looks less like a vampire that has lived nearly two hundred years and more like a man who works for a library—doing inventory. His style, his motif, has always been simplistic. He isn't one prone to dramatics or flashy garbs. He is at home with the mute colors of brown or white. He is simple and his dress often reflects that.

But, she thinks, that is what has always appealed to him to her. That he hid nothing. That his khakis went well with her sunday dresses. That his dress shirts always gave off the air of a gentlemanly nature.

“Sookie,” he calls to her, his raspy burr sending chills down her spine. She suppress the reaction and keeps her face straight.

She doesn't need to further murk up the waters. What they shared had been a single night. A night she often regrets if she's up late enough. A night that could be chalked up to a rebound. A night, that even he must know, was an utter mistake.

“Bill,” she greets him with a stiff nod and a stretched smile, “I don't want to impose—”

“You could never,” he interrupts. His dark brown eyes glimmering under the half moon. His chocolate hair has been combed back exposing his pale, simple featured face. To call him handsome would be to exaggerate. His features are too neutral, too plain. If not for the undead paleness to his face she's sure he would be lost to a crowd. But there is something soft and warm in the tips of his smile. Something that pulls her tightly to him that even though she does not want him as she had once, as she should.

“Right, well, If you're not busy do you mind accompanying me to Fangtasia. I don't think it would be a good idea heading down there on my own. Not after—” she stops herself from saying the rest because she's not sure what to call it.

Not after she's broken up with Eric from their not relationship but essentially a relationship?

Not after she's falling into bed with her Ex two weeks after she's left Eric?

Not after all of it had been aired out in a not so pleasant talk in her living room that resulted in both Pamela and Eric's invitation being rescinded from her home.

“I understand,” Bill says by way of answer, his eyes seem to hold an acknowledgment to all that she has not dared to breath to life. How he seems to know, she does not ask. Because Bill, for all his faults, actually got the time to know her in the span of their relationship. He knows her, knows how her mind works, and so no doubt has deduced all she is currently internalizing.

Nodding she begins her slow decent down her porch steps and over to her car. By the time she's pulling out of the drive way she's four prayers deep asking the lord to give her strength for all that might come at her this night.

— **X—**

When she pulls up she is slightly unsettled by what she sees, or, what she doesn't see. The parking lot is empty. The line that should have trailed at least half a mile long is gone. The lights that spell out the clubs ironic name in looping cursive are off. This is not the kind of scene she had expected to find on a busy Friday night.

Something akin to instinct makes the hair at the back of her head stand on end. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong here and she did not know what. The air seemed charged, heavy and loaded. As if a storm was on the cusp of spilling over but remained stubbornly overhead. Teasing all with the threat of destruction to be had. She did not like it. It made her rub her hands roughly over the exposed flesh of her arms.

“Sookie, come,” Bill calls to her after he has zipped over to the front of the car.

Any other day she would have had one major little tiff about being called the way he did just now. Any other day she would have stubbornly walked ahead of him and into the bar. This night though, she minds her tongue because she sees the utter apprehension that is fluttering over his dark brow and over his eyes. No doubt, he can feel the tension in the air as clear as she could. No doubt, he probably knew more about it than she.

“You must stay close,” he tells her in a low voice as they begin to step closer to the darkened entrance of the club.

And not for the first time this night, Sookie thinks, she shouldn't have answered that phone call.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, Thoughts anyone???


	5. Of Hello's and Goodbye's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions are made.

 

* * *

 

 

When she enters, the club is empty. Empty, not in the sense that the humans are gone, but that so are the vampires that are under Eric's rule. The clubs is empty of even Ginger and all her nervous jitter energy. When she enters, she reaches with her mind out and over the bar. Her own sense of paranoia making it so that she must somehow catch whatever is a miss before they catch her unawares.

What she finds leaves her with no small amount of surprise.

Besides Bill's empty void she can count two more empty voids. Familiar little dips of nothing-ness that she can easily label Eric and Pamela. Then, there is another, further back and strange. The buzz is of a mind that is alive. It is a buzz akin to the buzz of a shifters in where she can't pierce that fog that cloaks and defends their mind from her. She cannot begin to pick through this persons mind. For there is no tangible thoughts that this mind has but more, an impression of an impressions emotion. She can almost hear the disgruntled agitation and frustration that this mind feels.

Slowly she and Bill cross the threshold of the bar and move out of the small bottle neck hallway that was the entrance. Some lights are on, not all, but enough of the red and mood setting ones that leave the atmosphere feeling somber and looking dismal. She thinks, Eric might have done this on purpose, simply to unnerve her.

Pamela stands in all her pale pink latex glory by the bar. Her pale blonde hair has been pulled up high into a pony tail. The end braided in a rope like pattern. She looks as happy as Sookie feels at being here. Which is to say, not thrilled at all. For her emerald green eyes are quick to snap over to Sookies left, where Bill stands, and a scowl is what paints itself over her ruby red lips.

“Compton, what a surprise,” she half growls and half mutters. There is a threat in those green eyes and something simmering just under her greeting. Something that even Sookie, in all her simple human ways, can feel. It would take a blind, deaf and dumb person to not take notice of the fact that Pamela is on edge.

“May I ask why, Misses Stackhouse was summoned at such a late hour?” Bill starts by way of greeting. His tone as dry as toast and his face void of any real expression.

One blonde perfectly sculptured right brow is quirked up before Pamela with a bite, “You may ask, but I won't guarantee you an answer.”

“She, as well as _I—_ as her acting escort, deserve an answer,” Bill valiantly argues for her in the face of a vampire almost two hundred years his senior.

“What you deserve is a decade locked in a coffin, buried in cement and covered head to wretched toe in silver.” Pamela says with a casual flick of her rope braided hair over her left shoulder. Her eyes burning where her face will not betray a single emotion, “Unfortunately, seldom do we get what we are owed and what is deserved to us.”

Sookie has been quiet throughout this whole exchange. The courage and anger she's conjured up to get this far dissipates in the face of Pamela's anger. It is no secret that Pamela knows. Knows what Sookie did in a fit of vulnerability and vindictive anger. Pamela must know, because once upon a time she could count Pamela as a friend. Now, Pamela only ever spoke to her unless ordered to by Eric. Now, Pamela could not even begin to stomach the sight of her.

She does not think it is her hyperactive shame fueled paranoia making her think Pamela must know the truth. It is the look in Pamela's green fired eyes that tells her so. Pamela knows and Pamela hates.

“Why have I been summoned?” she finally gathers the courage to ask. She's proud that her voice does not tremble. It is steady and confidant, though, she feels quite the opposite.

Those glowing mossy orbs flash over to her, for a second Sookie cannot breath, “Your business is with my maker, not with me.”

That said Pamela flashes over to the far end of the club. She stills at the foot of the empty throne Eric sat upon while the club was in operation. Her eyes flicking down to the girl that sits idly and lazily on a chair before the wooden throne.

Since their arrival into the bar, Sookie finally takes notice of the person in the empty club besides Pamela. How she missed it, she's not sure. But, she takes the time now to take notice of the mind that buzzes. The mind that feels rather than speaks. A mind so much like a normal mind yet not. A mind so much like a shifters yet not. A mind so much like a were yet not. A mind so much like that Meanade yet not.

The girl has skin the shade of burnt sugar. A nice rich shade of olive that is nothing like her own tanned skin, but, is more on the side of her ethnicity. Her face is built of exotic features, the kind that make one stop to stare in wonderment. She has wide large eyes the shade of liquid gold that swirl in ways eyes should not. These eyes are perched upon sharp and high cheek bones which causes them to slant ever so lightly. She has a firm little nose that would have been called dainty if not for the ring that is looped through it. It briefly reminds Sookie of a bruiser an old neighbor friend, in that, it also had that ring and it was used to steer the bull. Her deep black hair is tangled about her head in a way that might suggest see's been raking her fingers through it compulsively. Those dark tresses fall in sloppy waves down a little past her shoulders.

This girl is dressed in a worn down black leather jacket. Under which, she dons a simple gray shirt with a cracked white image of a skull. Her slim short legs sport black skinny jeans that are torn at the knees and are sloppily tucked out of the open tongues of her combat boots.

All in all, she looks no older than eighteen—and even then Sookie feels unsure about such a hefty number placed on that young face—and is dressed no better than an eighteen year old with a problem with authority.

But, Sookie knows better now. Sometimes demons came in pretty packaging’s. Sometimes it was those with the innocent, unassuming, beautiful faces that brought one the worst of pains. Plus, no one innocent was ever held by Eric. Eric was many a things but needlessly cruel was not one of them. He was fair in his dealings of judgments. He did not heedlessly bring humans here, like this, unless they were to be charged with something dire. She thinks, briefly, of Lafayette's stay in the dungeons and how that had been 'necessary'. She thinks of Jason and how he had just narrowly escaped similar punishment.

So she steadies her resolve and begins her slow trek forward; her hand looped around Bill's extended arm. They still about four or five feet from the little table and chair the girl has been seated in. Just far enough that they are not swallowed whole by the cloud of smoke that surrounds the girl.

“Hey, Undead Barbie, how much longer am I going to be kept here?” the girl asks, her voice is husky, a deep and dark timber that Sookie wasn't used to hearing in women. There is a twang of something southern, maybe, but in whole the accent is not something she can name or spot.

“Why?” Pamela drawls out, her eyes flashing over to the girl, a dark emotion swelling in her mossy greens, “Have somewhere to be?”

“Not really, I just didn't think my whole night was gunna be spent here in this graveyard,” the girl snaps back her words dripping in sarcasm, flicking the ash off her cigarette onto the cup of half empty water, “You Dead-o's sure know how to party!”

Sookie has half a mind to interrupt and save the girl from herself. If there was a vampire with even less patience than Eric it was his child. Sookie didn't want to see the young girl bleed out before her eyes. No matter what crime she might be charged with.

“Maybe, if you survive the night, I'll show you how we Undead indeed party,” Pamela tells the girl with a cock to her brow and a wicked smirk spread wide and cruel across her crimson lips.

“Ou, are you asking me out on a date?” the girl asks, her smile wide and golden eyes sparkling with hidden mischief, “I just have to warn you babe, I don't _bite_ on the first date, I'm the kind of girl that'll make you work for it.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Pamela tells her before dismissively flicking her eyes down and away from the girl. The female vampire lost to whatever now occupies her mind.

Faster than her human eyes can track, Eric in all his black tank and dark washed jeaned glory, was in the room—seated upon his throne. Looking for all the world like he wished to be anywhere but here. His large muscular body dwarfs the gigantic throne he is seated upon. His thick arms lazily splayed out and his tree trunk thighs propped open in a casual pose. His long golden hair had been combed back and pulled into a messy little half pony tail. Thus, exposing the utter beauty of his strongly featured face. Eric, she knows, would not get lost in a crowd. He would split it like Moses and the red sea.

A familiar dark swirl of longing and lust sparks in her veins. Whether it be in her scent or in their faded bond, those deep ocean eyes flash over to her in response. His face is void of emotion, every feature set into a neutral line, giving away nothing. The end of his bond gives not a single twitch of life.

 _'Whatever was between us, it's gone now,'_ her mind traitorously whispers to her.

“Ms. Stackhouse,” his deep, husky, timbered voice is a rasp of utter masculinity, dragging it's way down the expanse of her spine like a silk laced sledge hammer, “I see you brought company. Refresh my memory, Billy-Boy, but did I invite you here tonight? I do not believe I did.

Winter Artic winds were warmer than Eric's tone.

“No, you did not request my presence on this night sheriff” Bill bites out, his gaze murderous.

“I—I asked him to come with me,” Sookie manages to stutter out. Her heart racing as thoughts of Eric inflicting some type of punishment on Bill over her invade her mind.

“Since I did not welcome you in, I do believe it is time you left Bill,” Eric says to the whole of the room, his gaze fixed on some far away point, not even fit to rest themselves upon the vampire he dismissed so callously.

“Eric, that's not necessary, I invited Bill—l” her words die on her tongue when those swirling dark pools of azure flash over to her.

Some shadowed emotion lingered there—in that gaze—something she could name but knew it went hand in hand with bloodshed. It flashes dangerously in his gaze as they fix themselves with her own and she is left breathless.

Without breathing a word of goodbye, Bill leaves at the sight of that look. Sookie can't exactly call it cowardice. Not really. She knows had it been her who had been dismissed so ruthlessly she would have ran just as fast. But, when she extends her shields to locate him, she is mildly disappointed that he dares not even wait for her in Fangtasia's parking lot.

“Why am I here Eric?” she demands suddenly, just to get that oppressive gaze up and off her.

“Sookie, I would like to introduce you to my new employee, Lena,” Eric tells her, his gaze moving over to the girl who sits smoking idly, “Our new resident Witch.”

Let it be known, that Sookie is a woman with an opened mind. She's not racist, or speciest, or even prejudicial. But after all that has happened at the hands of the witches she thinks a little well deserved unease is proper. So when she takes those four deliberate steps back it's not out of hate but out of fear. That swirling dread spills over when the girl merely laughs at her actions. Those glowing golden eyes burning like embers from a fire.

She shouldn't have answered the damn phone.

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, according to the short story 'Two Blondes' Pamela is actually revealed to be around 160 years old. But since this is fanfic, and I can do whatever I want to whomever I wish, I decided to make her nearly four hundred years old. Meaning she's quite old and wayyyyy stronger than Billy-Boy.  
> Oh, and if you caught my dislike for Bill bleeding through all this, I make no apologies. I don't like Bill. Never have. Especially after the whole 'Trunk scene' in the book. Utter fucking bullshit Sookie let that go so easy-peasy. Sent to seduce and acquire her through any means necessary? And yet he has the gall to stand there and bad mouth Eric. Mega Bullshit. But, I digress. 
> 
> I really hope, whoever is reading, that you are enjoying!!!  
> -Ani<3


	6. A flash and a bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena and Sookie get to talking.  
> Truths are dug out and some power is displayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while eating a papa preparada at my favorite taco place. So, if any cheese fell between the words, I will be needing that back.  
> I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

Her line is old, older than most. In fact, Lena's line can be traced all the way back to the beginning of their creation. It is a sacred blessing and wretched curse to be born to such a prestigious line. A line that must endure, at all costs, until the end of these days. A line that must live because much leans upon them.

Her line is old, older than most, and if this blonde beautiful dead ass knew he wouldn't have been so quick to trap her with the old pacts. Considering, it was her great descendant who struck them in the first place. But, he doesn't know. He cannot even begin to imagine the damage he has begun to weave for him and his kind by enacting them now, in front of her, **imposing** it _upon_ her.

And she will not say. Not to him anyway. Not to anyone either because this doesn't need to get more out of hand than it already is. She had hoped this would be a quiet affair. She had hoped to keep it between the two blonde Dead-o's. But, best laid plans and all…

Somewhere, between clearing out the bar of drunken mortals and telling all the other Undead's to skadaddle, yet another Blonde was called for and one undead constipated fella. They've gathered at the far end of the club, at the foot of some wooden chair that might double as a throne. When the two newcomers approach she feels it.

Though it is the dead of night, somewhere close to the holy hour—she can feel the surge of her power beginning to hum just beneath the threshold of her flesh—so there should be no reason for her to feel what she does. As if stepping out of the shadows and into the sun's rays, warmth falls upon her skin. The scent of flowers, of fresh springs and life hum in the air. The shadows that lined the club—as they had not bothered with raising the lighting—stretched and all but disappeared. The darkness and gloom that encompasses the whole of this place is temporarily lifted by that pin up doll Blonde.

She knows very little creatures who can truly chase away the heaviness of an undeads stench. The power that keeps them living without breath, thriving on blood and living in the shadows, is a potent one. A dark ancient power from a dark and ancient God. She knows of masking spells, that can temporary banish the taste of this magic, but nothing that can make it disappear as whole as this humans just done.

So it makes her question, just what might this sun baked blue eyed bombshell is. Because she's not human, at least, not totally—not completely. There's a stirring of magic around her, however faint it may be. There is something that simply... _shines_ in that woman and exudes in heavy waves off her person. And yet, she moves in a way that suggest she does not even take notice. She moves in a way that suggests she is the one that has to fear the shadows and the things that dwell in it. When in fact, it is very much the other way around.

Idly she wonders, as the vampires hiss and spit at each other, if the vampires in attendance even notice how they are drawn to that glow. She wonders if they are aware of how they seem to lean into her glow. She wonders if they can feel it, that magic of utter pure sunlight bubbling just under the surface. But that glow is as dangerous to them as the real deal hanging in the midday sky. Lena wonders if they know.

“Eric...” the tall beautiful sun bleached blonde calls out. Her rosy tanned face is scrunched up in a show of nervousness.

Since the rude dismissal of the constipated brunette vampire, the blonde has been fretting. More so now that the Northman—Eric—has introduced her for what she is: a Witch. The blonde human looks two shades of scared and about four seconds away from running. The declaration of what she is, what power she holds, has unsettled that glowing human. Has made her weary of simply standing before her.

 _'Maybe it was the laughing,'_ her brain lazily supplies.

“Why am I here?” she asks, her shoulders squaring as she attempts to drag up some false bravado.

“You are here because I have summoned you Ms. Stackhouse,” the god of all Undead tells the glowing girl. His gaze and words are scathing hot and blistering cold all the same.

Clearly there is some kind of unresolved tension between to pale blonde and the golden blonde. The kind of which only lovers can have. She makes sure to file that away for later.

“Why?” the glowing girl, Ms. Stackhouse, demands. Her powder blue eyes falling on her for a moment before their wrenched away in a fit of fear, “What did she do?”

Hearing the accusation and clear resentment, her hackles rise, “ _She_ has a name.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” the glowing girl mutters, clear ingrained manners rise to the top of her nerves as she nods her way and introduces herself properly, “My name is Sookie Stackhouse.”

Taking it for what it's for she tips her head ever so slightly and says, “I'm Lena Del Rey, and Sookie if you must know, I didn't _do_ anything. I came here and told these two _beautiful_ pricks about some shady shit going down in their neck of the woods. That's how I wound up here. No more no less, gorgeous.”

Apprehension lines those baby blues before they flash away and over to the Northman, “Eric, why am I here?”

“You are here because I wish to make use of your little gift. As it is stated in our **contract** ,” the blonde undead heart throb tells the glowing girl, Sookie, his eyes a hateful fire of dislike, “you must comply.”

The words seem to act like a slap to Sookie's face. Slashing hard and vicious across her rosy cheeks like an actual hand. There is hurt and bitter realization on those gorgeous features. The kind that makes her wonder to what extent did the two blondes history truly span. Offering a stiff heavy nod, Sookie grips the dark bag tucked underneath her arm and heads over to the table Lana finds herself seated at.

It is a small round little thing, this table. It is the kind of which are often found here in bars like this. Tall and with barely enough space to put one's elbows upon them and feel comfortable. Still, chairs had been provided and she had sat at the most gentle prodding of that green eyed beautiful she beast. Now, Sookie, this strangely glowing girl sits before her at the behest of the Vampire Sheriff of area Five. Not so gentle prodding's from him to use whatever gift this human may yet have.

Purse hung on the edge of the chair, seated and relatively comfortable, Sookie stares at her. A focused, fixed, expression fluttering over her brow as she stared her down. For a moment, all goes silent. If Vamp's could hold their breath, she has no doubt they would be doing so now. As if were, only Sookie held her breath before plunging ahead with whatever she was charged to do.

There's a brief wriggling of fear that tingles in the back of her mind. The kind that has her wondering just _what_ the glowing girl could do, would do, onto her. Maybe, she weaved more magic than just the pull of sunlight and the chasing of shadows. But, then, she hadn't walked in here with faith alone. She'd taken precautions and brought gadgets to help her out of pickle if indeed she walked into one.

She's not some _Begger_ , **Halfie** or  Thief. She's full blooded and that fucking means _**something**_.

So, let the glowing girl try.

She'd like to see why the Great Viking Warrior of old would think to call such a mortal to use against her.

“What exactly am I looking for?” Sookie questions stiffly. Those pale sky blue eyes never leaving her own hazel orbs.

“For deceit. This Witch came here, to _my_ place of business, and wove a tale that I cannot begin to accept as truth until some investigating—of sorts—can be conducted,” Northman tells her.

“And if she's lying?” Sookie asks, unease creeping into her eyes.

There is a pause, slight and barely noticeable, before the undead man speaks, “Her life will be forfeit. As is the usual punishment of the law she has broken.”

“I'm not lying,” Lana all but growls, her eyes flashing and her power surging just under the fragile vessel that was her flesh and bones, “I'm getting real tired of being threatened here, Deady."

“And what was she supposed to have lied about,” Sookie asks, completely disregarding the glare Lana sends her way.

“That there is yet another witch coven that wishes to stir some unneeded trouble in my area,” the Northman states all plain and dry.

“Well, that's putting it mildly.” Lena snorts out, her hands going to rummage through her pockets for her pack of Red's. White slim stick dangling from her lips, she's half way through the flame spell being recited in her mind when she feels it.

Warm hands, like 'straight out of the oven' kind of warm, wrap themselves around her mind. For a moment it strikes her dumb and silent. Her eyes widening at the realization of what is happening. A disbelieving smile spreading itself over and around her cigarette. There are rumors, small snippets of tales told in the course of time, of humans—of creatures—possessing such useful gifts. But these rumors are select in what these creatures might be.

Suddenly, Lena thinks, the puzzle that is this glowing girl is beginning to piece itself together.

“Now look at that, the rumor mill for once was hit it on the head. You do have a telepath under lock and key,” she says aloud, her eyes sliding over to the mountain of sin on the throne. A smirk growing wide on her lips as she tells him, “But I do hope you know, such a gift is useless against one of my kind.”

Sookie, bless her heart, knits her brows together and scowls, “How do you know about about...my gift?”

Rolling her eyes and fixing her attention back at the buxom blonde informs her, “I can feel you,” at this she taps at her temple before lighting her cigarette. This time there is a gasp at her blatant display of power. Lena, for all that she's been taught to humble herself, cannot deny that the gasp didn't boost her ego just a little, “You're rummaging through there with all the grace of a drunkard with a sledge hammer. Kinda hard to miss sweetie.”

“You can feel me?” Sookie repeats. Her eyes large as saucers. As if she's just been told the existence of vampires for the first time.

Nodding and heaving out a lungful of poison Lena says, “Yeah, everyone can, to some degree. Different breeds feel different things. Right now, right now you feel like hot summer warmth trying to burn through my thoughts. Can almost taste the sunshine on my tongue. Can almost see your hands prying through.”

“Would _everyone_ feel it like that?” Sookie asks. The thought of putting anyone in discomfort while she riffled seemed to unsteady the blonde. But what she means to say, no doubt, is would people not of witch relation feel her minds reach.

“I don't know,” she answers with a shrug and a flick of ash, “From what I hear that nifty little trick can't be used on Dead-o's, right?” here Sookie nods enthusiastically, “Were's and Shifters, I hear, are about the same. In that you can only glance in every now and again. Their emotions are gnarly right? Makes it harder to see through the haze into their thoughts?”

Sookie nods again, the general feel of her face is that of enrapture. As if every word that falls from her drying dark lips are some important life lesson. It's a bit unsettling.

“Mortals are fair game, their minds are susceptible to just about everyone's magic,” she finishes lamely.

Brows knit Sookie tells her, “It's not magic. It's a quirk I was born with. Besides that everything about me is perfectly normal.”

With a scoff Lena informs her, “Nothing about you is normal and believe me. You've got magic in you; buried, diluted and almost worn down but it's there.”

When the blonde does the impression of a floundering fish she directs her question to the undead in the room, “Have any of you had a taste of her blood.”

Neither undead beauties answer. She rolls her eyes at their little fits.

“Well, if you had I'm sure you would have tasted it. You're different Sookie. You pull the light towards you and seem not to feed off of it but empower it. I know of only a select few creatures who can do that. Even less who can walk around sporting telepathy. Trust me, you're anything but normal child of the Sky.”

Lena's words ring out for a moment. A heavy deep silence following closely at it's heels. One where she has three blondes staring at her like she's just told them the sky's never been blue but red. Sookie can't seem to comprehend her words but when she eyes the two vamps she spots understanding in them. Of course they would better understand. Especially a vampire of the Northman's caliber and age. How many of Sookie's ancestors was he solely responsible of ending?

Possibly hundreds or thousands.

But, who's counting, right?

“As illuminating as this has all been,” the Northman drawls, his dark eyes gleaming—a calculating look aimed the Sookie's way—before they fixed themselves coldly and squarely on Lena, “This is not the information I had wished to learn on this night.”

“No, you wanted to find out if I was lying which is why you brought out your little telepath. Who coincidentally can't read my mind. So, how do you propose we go on about this?” Lena asks with a tone that is less than polite and more of a growl, “Because I'd very much like to leave your tacky little club and get back to--”

She stops herself suddenly. A lot has been told to these undead ungrateful asses. A lot about the who's and the what's. There was no reason to give up anything about herself. She was trying to stay alive and keep her selfish love's heart beating.

“Please, Ms. Del Rey, finish your sentence,” Northman goads, his eyes threatening to slice her into pieces, his distrust of who or what she was palpable.

Pursing her lips up into a thick scowl she snaps, “Fuck you very much, Mr. Northman, but I think I'd much prefer leaving.”

“She's hiding something,” Sookie suddenly announces. Her eyes narrowed on Lena's face as if trying to make out some hidden text upon her features. A small tendril of fear spikes in her before she can think better of it and prays to her goddess that her natural defenses to Sookies gift hold.

 _Fuck,_ she thinks, _I only came to help. I only wanted it to stop before it escalates. To keep him safe. To keep a war from breaking out and having him die in the fucking mess._

The mere mention of him has an image of a bright smile, glowing clear brown eyes and a love that burned bright and true. His name whispered by the memories of her mind that ache and long for a future where they are both safe and together. She tries, and fails, to steady her heart beat. She tries to banish thoughts of him. She tries, and fails, to guard him from the dangerous that have seated herself before her.

She tries and utterly fails in her everything she's planned to get from beginning this night. Like all else in life, she fucks it right up.

“Someone named... _Noe_ ,” Sookie garbles the name, the word falling from her rosy pink lips serving to butcher her heart.

Everything in her, her heart, her lungs, her blood, freezing at the utterance of that name.

“So you are doing this for a man then? Typical, you mortals, always falling prey to such silly notions as love. What did you expect would happen when you came here? That we would extend our aid in helping you keep this man alive for this information? Such a misguided notion,” the Northman sneers down at her as she tries to wrap her mind around the fact that her greatest weakness was exposed in less than ten seconds flat.

This, this was not how she expected this night to play out. At worst she had thought they would have killed her or she would have killed someone. At best she thought maybe they simply send her quickly on her way thinking she was crazy. This, this was not at all what she had thought would happen. She almost wants to laugh at how fucking shitty her luck in all things was.

Taking a steadying breath she glares up the thousand year old prick and tells him, “I didn't come here to ask you to help me save him. I'm doing that on my own. I don't need your undead ass helping me for shit. I only came to warn you that if you don't hurry that coven is going to start snatching up undead fucks left and right.”

The silence that falls is ugly and loaded. One where she and Eric glare murderously at each other.

It is only broken when she roughly shoves herself to her feet and tosses her half dead cig on the floor of the club while saying, “I only came down here to warn you, to help you. Goddess knows if it were the other way around—if vampires were about to tear apart _my_ coven—I would have liked a heads up. But if you want to toss aside my help, it's no biggie. It won't be me dying. Now, I'd like to say it was a pleasure meeting you, but I can honestly say that it was. This has been the single most unpleasant night in all my life. So I guess, thanks, for that.”

With a huff she turns to storm out, but, is caught about the under of her arm and half hauled up. The tips of her booted feet barely touching the black tiled floor of the club. In a flash of panic and alarm, her eyes whip up to meet dark swirling eyes bearing down on her murderously. The sight of those azure orbs swirling with vicious hate makes her heart skip a beat in her chest. Again, for one traitorously long minute, she thinks he is the most beautiful creature she has ever seen.

“You are mine now, witch, you cannot leave,” he hisses, his fangs flashing down threatening at her.

Pushing past the admiration she has for his beauty she frowns at him and asking in her most condescending voice, “Must we do this again?”

lightning quickly surges from her core out and over to the hand that grips him. Again, it's meant to stun, to warn and to deter—not to kill. But the threat still stands as it had in that office of his. She wasn't like Willow's kid's. She was strong and she wasn't about to get pushed about.

“You are bound by the old laws,” he growls, his body has become rigid as the electricity has begun to course through him, “You are _bound_.”

Anger, old vindictive rage surges through her. The kind she had thought she had long since shed. The kind she thought she had buried in the foothills of her homes mountains. The kind that had eaten at her and made her a cruel and vicious woman wells up and spills over into the air.

The tips of her dark hair begin to rise as if there are invisible strings tied to their ends. They rise up as the heavy scent of magic floods the whole of the club.

“ **Do you know who I am?** ” she demands, her voice taking hold of a power more ancient than she. The voices of the shades and shadows deepening her pitch until it sounded like the rolling of thunder and the break of storming waves, “ **Do you know of what line I come from?** **Do you know where I come from? No, you do not. You know nothing of me, of my kind, or of my kin. You know nothing of the old ways! so do not dare to presume to know the weight and severity of them. Now, unhand me** _Norseman_ **,** **or I'll burn it off.** ”

Those blue eyes are thunderous, hateful and livid. They want, they crave, to see the life be ripped from her. They lust for dark pleasures. And yet, peering into them now—in the thrall of her own power—she can almost see a shimmer of wonder in them. But, it is gone as soon as she see's it.

Whether it is the scent of magic, or the sound of her voice—deepened by the shadows and her power—he pulls away and steps away.

“ **I came to you, to aid you and your kind, nothing more and nothing less. I did not come to seek your help for me or mine. Do what you will, I don't care anymore** ,” Lena rumbles at him, her voice sounding as if made by five growling beasts.

Pulling the shadows out of every crevice that could be found she pulls from her pocket one of her fail safes. She's much to tired, much too angry and frustrated to think clearly of her actions. She only knows that she doesn't care. Doesn't care to show them something she shouldn't be. She just wants out. She wants to go home. She wants her bed. She wants to rest and gather her strength.

More than anything she wants to _leave_.

What she pulls from her jacket pocket is an ugly lumpy unassuming looking item. It is a candle. A simple black candle with a darker wick that has been burned almost to a midway point. It is not a weapon but a means of escape. Blowing on the wick, it lights, catching fire quickly and bathing everything in a greenish tinted glow. With a flash of green light she is swallowed whole by that light and pulled out of the club.

The only evidence that she was ever there is the scorched runs on the spot where she had once stood. Runes of a language the undead Norseman cannot begin to make heads or tails of burning with wild green fire into his club floor.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, like I said no Timeline. The reference to Sookie's fae blood was brought up here and will be explained to Sookie later on by Lena. Once, you know, everyone calms down.  
> Oh did you guys catch that candle thing? Stardust anyone? I'm a huge fan. I love that movie!!!  
> So any thoughts? Any questions?  
> please feel free to ask or comment.  
> -Ani<3


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric muses on a witch and begins to get things started.

 

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Her eyes had been a deep shade of amber. In them he had seen a raging swirl of emotions that he, in his long life, has long lost the ability to distinguish and name. The creature he had held is of some Spanish descent; her features were foreign and tended to lean to the mountain ranges of the Aztec pueblo footholds. Still, her features had been small, petite, befitting of her heart oval face—clearly, her heritage is of mix bloods. Her nose was slim, her cheek bones prominent that they slant her large hazel eyes in a feline manner, and big plump lips the deepest shade of maroon. Her skin is a dark shade that had—for the briefest of moments—reminded him of sun warmed sands. Her hair was a deep chocolate color that bordered on black. It fell in messy waves of half curls and half knots—clearly it had been mussed up in the fight he had given her.

If she hadn't been what she was, maybe a simple blood bag no different than the rest, he'd call her looks exotic, if anything at all. Not beautiful, not by this ages standards and definitely not by his own ancient standards. Her beauty was exotic. Something that spoke of a different age and a wildness that remained untamed.

But he cared not for any of this. No, not when something far more appealing had demanded his attention so firmly.

Like woodsmoke…

Like fire…

Like honey…

Like dark magic…

Like...a flower scent so subtle he cannot place a name to it...

Before this night, he had never scented something like this. Never has he come across blood that not only sings but roars. Blood that whispers of power and screams of unimaginable pleasure. Blood that called to his long slumbering beast with promises of victories won with blood and iron. Blood that calls of moonless nights and woods unnamed. Blood that enticed him and pulled him in, allowing his anger to bleed away, inch by miserable inch.

The scent of her blood was intoxicating. It was dangerous.

She was dangerous, this little witch.

It, no doubt, had all been some type of trick. Some spell she cast before entering his club. Some magic to ensure he would fall under her sway. Blood did not sing. Blood did not whisper. Blood did not speak of home and promise dark pleasures.

Blood did not sway him. But it had tempted him. It had called to him. It had woken a beast long since put to rest and slumber. It called to the primal edge of himself. It called to the ancient power passed down in his own blood. That blood...that blood was unlike anything he had ever scented. For a moment, the barest of moments, his beast had roared to life and threatened to break forward. A sick mantra of 'Mine' chanted deep in the shadows of his mind. For the barest of moments, Eric had felt as powerful and exhilarated as he had when first he rose from the muddy ground.

“Well,” the tense silence is broken by none other than his only childe, her voice as dry as a desert and as humored as a stake, “That was _entertaining_.”

“Pamela,” he calls to her with a tone that allows for no argument or leeway. In this moment, he is a sheriff. He is a Master. A Maker. Not the lenient father he has always been for her.

“Eric?” another voice calls out to him, cracking and breaking in fear. He doesn't need to turn his head or place his eyes upon the speaker to know that a pink lip is caught between teeth. He knows hands are being wrung. He knows she is shifting her weight from one foot onto the other. Her confusion, her fear and her desperation to flee is palpable in the air—he can nearly taste it.

Even then, in the hallow of a broken faded bond he can feel the pulse of her heart. He can feel just how much she wanted to be anywhere but here. He can feel how much distrust she has for him. He can feel the fear she has for him and his daughter. He can feel it and—though he has had time to mourn what he has apparently lost—it wounds him still.

“Pamela, please escort Ms. Stackhouse back to her home. Her services are no longer needed,” he announces to the two blonde women in the room. His back is to them as he faces the bar. The smoking burned runes the only thing he dares to fix his gaze upon.

“ **And after?** ” Pamela questions, the words that slip from her tongue are harsh and ragged. IT is a poor attempt at his own mother tongue—a tongue lost to the passage of time—but still, it is much better than when she first attempted to speak it.

“ **After, you will come here, we have a witch to hunt** ,” he tells her easily enough.

“Yes, Master,” Pamela murmurs, her voice tinged with hints of anticipation. There is a slight rustle of latex fabric as Pamela, no doubt, is going so far as to bend her head forward in an exaggerated show of respect.

With little trouble, Ms. Stackhouse is escorted out of his bar and headed back to the safety of her inferior lover. He tries to not feel stung by the relief that floods that broken faded bond the moment she is out of his line of sight. He clenches his fist tight as he glares at his ruined tile and wills these wretched feelings from him.

There is much now to do, what with the little witch disappearing in a ball of green light. He has no time to stand here and growl at the longing in his chest he doesn't quite understand. Straightening his shirt and running a hand through his long blonde locks he turns on his heels, heading straight for his office.

He has many calls to make.

Witch rumors, though may all be falsehoods, are not things to be taken lightly. There is much to do. But first, he thinks as he grips his phone in hand, just exactly who was Ms. Del Rey. Was this witch Friend or Foe?

That absurd thought is pushed aside as he begins to make his calls. No witch could ever be called a Friend to a Vampire.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know. Pretty short.  
> But I wanted to try my hand writing in Eric's POV. I don't think I did a good job of it. But oh well, do or don't do. There is no try right?  
> This is my do.  
> Hope you all like it!


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